


This Is How The Mighty Fall

by Isedy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anti-Muggle Content, Bigotry & Prejudice, Characters with Diabetes, Chronic Illness, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/F, F/M, Graphic Depictions of Illness, M/M, Muggle Culture, Muggle Life, Muggle/Wizard Relations, Period Typical Attitudes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:08:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23834383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isedy/pseuds/Isedy
Summary: Regulus meets a muggle. AU. Non-Canon Compliant.
Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Regulus Black/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	1. Prologue

Regulus went at night.

That was the only time he could get away from the house unseen and unheard. Mother had left for the evening, off to visit their cousins, Druella and Cygnus to plan for the coming months of war, and Father had left earlier that evening to dine with Lord Malfoy.

He had waited until after dinner, a roast of thick, creamy mashed potatoes, rashers and steak, his heart racing in his throat. He was sure that he’d adjusted his robes a hundred times around his neck, the stifling tie loosening until it was a messy knot at his collarbones. The silk fabric itched, and he wanted to tear it off himself, to light it on fire if it would get rid of the tantalizing prickling sensation under his skin.

After dinner, he’d retired to his chambers, and torn off his tie. He waited until he heard the crackle of the floo, and the groan of the old firepit to get dressed. He tugged on a green sweater, and kept his Hogwarts uniform on underneath, the white of the collar peeking out from beneath the jumper’s hem.

His hands were shaking as he clutched the locket. The cool metal bit into his fingers, and he wondered for the thousandth time if he was doing the right thing. His heart beat quickly in his chest, and he felt a pinch of panic at the back of his throat, tongue tasting bitter in his dry mouth.

“I am doing the right thing.” Regulus whispered to the empty air. “He hurt Kreacher. I am—I’m doing the right thing.”

Somehow, the words made it seem all the more real, all the more concrete. The fear was whirling in his stomach now, echoing under his skin like spasms, and he wanted nothing more than to recede into himself, to take out an advanced Potions book and immerse himself in knowledge, but he knew he couldn’t.

The Dark Lord had hurt Kreacher, for _fun_ , with no consideration for his pain or agony, and Regulus couldn’t stand behind a man who treated his lesser like little more than pests.

His words seemed so far away now, the promise of power seemed bleak and poisonous, and Regulus was afraid. He was so very, very afraid; because Mother and Father were throwing themselves head first into a future that Regulus was terrified of. His friends—no, no; allies, not friends—Mulciber, Avery and Yaxley were all revving to go, their anger and loathing frothing under the surface, and he knew they all yearned to tear into the Blood-traitors, Mudbloods and filthy, disgusting Muggles like the Dark Lord had promised them.

He had pretended, for years that the ugly little flower of uncertainty hadn’t been blooming in his mind, quiet and undisturbed. His housemates were bloodthirsty for change, waiting for the day that _they_ could take over power. The day that they could be proud of being Slytherin, of using the Dark Arts; of being curious of all aspects of magic without being labeled as _bad, undeserving, untrustworthy._

Regulus himself had yearned for a day where his Mother would finally be proud of him; for following the pureblood traditions, for making all the right choices…for being her son.

After Sirius…had left….Walburga Black had never really been quite the same. Regulus knew, in the depths of his heart, that it had been _Sirius_ who had been the favored son, despite his Mother’s cruel words the last time they had seen his brother. He had been eager, desperate even, to show that he could be the one to make up for the stain that Sirius had left on their household, on the Black legacy, and he had thrown himself into the snake pit with vigor and rigorous excitement.

It had all come to a startling, lurching stop the day that Kreacher had come back, trembling, half-soaked and croaking of a fate worse than death. He remembered that day with perfect accuracy; the horror that had dawned over him, the terrifying realization of just _what_ the Dark Lord had done, and the disgust that welled within him.

_Horcrux._

The word had inspired bottomless fear, and Regulus had gone to bed after tending to Kreacher, terrified of what he could do to stop this horrifying, desperate, _disgusting_ man who would split his soul to achieve his goals.

It was the soft creak of the door that pulled him from his whirling thoughts, and Regulus spun around to find that Kreacher was addling up to him, beady eyes narrowed in worry. He wanted to let out a sigh of relief at the sight, but he didn’t dare breathe, for fear of letting out a sob.

_Be brave,_ he thought. _Be brave like Sirius would be._

“Master Regulus is sure?” Kreacher said, no louder than a whisper.

Regulus leaned over his desk, fingers racing across the wood, tracing the grooves his quill had left behind. His eyes were riveted on the frames; Slytherin paraphernalia, Quidditch teams, a picture of Slughorn’s Slug Club everyone looking out with somber faces. His mouth thinned to a line when he spotted the edge of a picture sliding out from behind a snake mascot.

His fingers trembled as he edged it out of the hiding slot. A five and seven year old Sirius and Regulus stood at the steps of an ancestral home, both beaming brightly. Sirius waved, a laugh escaping him as five year old Regulus slammed into him, arms wrapping around his waist.

“Yes.” Regulus said sternly. He slipped the picture into his trouser pocket and turned to face his house elf. “I am ready.”

Kreacher looked impossibly terrified then, his eyes going wide in fear, his lower lip trembling. His hands came up to tug at the large, bat-like ears and he muttered something to himself, a garble of words that sounded a little like, _“Master is sure, ‘tis not Kreacher’s place.”_

Regulus watched him for a moment, cold, bitter fear tasting like pennies across his tongue and wondered how he was going to make this happen. He thought of everything that could go wrong. Thought of how the Dark Lord would torture him to death if he found out. Thought of Bellatrix’s feverish, crazed eyes and how she would relish in tearing him apart for _daring_ to disobey their Lord. Thought of his Mother who would be so disappointed…

And then he thought of Kreacher, of Sirius and his friends, who would die in a bloody war if he did not try to stop the madman at the helm of this frenzied revolution. He thought of all the people that would suffer, and how Slytherin wouldn’t be the saviors but the evil ones and he set his jaw, determined.

_Be brave,_ he reminded himself once more, _be brave like Sirius._

“Let’s go, Kreacher.” Regulus said, and his elf snapped his fingers, his coat materializing out of thin air. He put it on, tugging the collar tight and wrapping a warm knitted green scarf around his neck.

They stumbled down the stairs, and Regulus looked around the dark home once more. He took in the moving portraits, the heavy lace curtains, and closed his eyes, breathing in the smell of home one last time.

Then, he swept out of the front door, stepping onto the Muggle street for the first time in ten years. It hadn’t changed much; the street lamps were on, bathing the pavement with dim, yellow light. The houses were still disgustingly muggle and he could hear the static of their _machines_ in their homes, blaring out into the silent night.

It was bitingly cold outside, the wind dragging across his cheeks like sharp knives, and he dragged the scarf closer to himself. He sucked in a breath, and then turned to Kreacher who was tugging at his ears in worry.

“Kreacher, if you will?” He asked politely.

“Of course, Master Regulus.” Kreacher answered, taking his hand. The elf’s skin was leathery, and his clawed hand almost surprisingly brittle. It wasn’t warm. Nor was it cold. “Kreacher is taking Master Regulus to the Cave, just like Kreacher promised.”

With a snap of his fingers, and the feeling of disorientating dizziness, they disappeared with a sharp _crack._

...

As the sun descended behind the buildings, a shock of white snowflakes fluttered down to the front steps of Grimmauld Place. Someone exclaimed in happiness, and children ran to the windows, joyful smiles hurting their cheeks as they pressed hands against frozen windowpanes.

_What a happy day,_ they all thought. _Christmas was coming._

...

They landed with a snap on a steep outcrop of rock, just as a wave broke against the cliff, spraying salty water across Regulus’s face. He shivered as the cold, freezing wind blew through his coat, chilling him to the bones. The sea churned restlessly, roiling against the rocks like an ill-restrained wraith and for a moment, Regulus swayed on the ledge, the vertigo making him stagger.

A bony, clawed hand dragged him back by the trousers, and he stumbled over his feet, sprawling across the icy rock with a thud. He groaned, hands stinging with cold and wet, fingers numb in the frozen air.

“Kreacher is sorry, Master Regulus—“Kreacher began to lament, a fist raising to slam down on his head, and Regulus caught it before he did any damage.

“It’s my fault, Kreacher.” He rasped. His words fell from his lips in a puff of white cloud, billowing up into the air like a trail of smoke. “Wasn’t paying attention.”

The house elf hovered, hand still clenched in his trousers, and Regulus groaned as he hefted himself up. Wiping his hands on his coat, he shook himself. Fear made him nervous, panicky, and he wanted nothing more than to run away and hide, to apparate back to Grimmauld Place and slide under his covers and close his eyes until the nightmares would leave him.

Then the wind whipped at his face and the tears that had slipped out froze on his cheeks and he was once again reminded that he was here for a _reason._ He would be brave, he would be brave like Sirius and Andromeda who had sacrificed everything to gain a little bit of happiness.

Turning to face the cliff face, he tightened his grip on his coat, hand sliding into his pocket to grip his wand. His hummed a little in response, and he felt reassured for a moment, as the warm feeling welled in his chest.

He had the locket and the note. He had the locket and the note and Kreacher, and he would be safe.

He would be fine.

“Is there an entrance?” Regulus asked after a moment; his eyes roved over the jagged cliff face and the yawning mouth, jagged rocks descending into a maw of darkness.

On the horizon, the sun was already drifting further and further down the sky, red light flickering across the water, painting the landscape in swathes of red, orange and dark pink. It looked like an impressionist painting; a tranquil, peaceful place. Of course, behind him, the outcrop of rock looked bleak and desolate, the stone so dark and slate-colored that it turned the barren colorless ledge into a scene from a nightmare; Regulus was sure that someone had died here, and he shivered, glad that there were no visible phantoms that lingered to haunt the place.

The Dark Lord was truly sick, he thought with renewed disgust.

“Of course, Master Regulus,” Kreacher croaked, words nearly swept away by the biting winds. His tunic flapped at each gust of cold, chilling wind and his skin looked gray and washed out in the light of the dying sun.

Regulus bit down on his tongue to stifle the whimper that threatened to loose his tongue and took a step forward. The air was muggy and held down by the smell of rotting seaweed, the stench of dying, decaying things pungent in the sheltered cave. The steps were jagged and broken, as if carved out by very reluctant erosion, and he was careful not to linger too long on the slippery, algae-congealed rock, terrified of slipping all the way down.

When they reached the end of the steps, Regulus let out a sigh of relief. The tangy scent of salt reached his nose and he breathed in, steeling himself against the panic that he felt against his breast.

_Remember,_ he willed himself, _remember why you are doing this—for a better future, a better life._

There was a little lake of water, roiling from the outer sea, and the choppy waves lapped against the rock, chipping away at the foundation. Whispering a _lumos_ , he squinted, trying to see the other side. In the murky, ill-defined darkness, he spied the gleam of wet rock and slate-colored cave wall that glittered at the edges of the spell.

The light flickered out, and Regulus was once again surrounded in darkness.

“Where now, Kreacher?” Regulus asked, voice barely a whisper.

It seemed wrong, somehow, to raise his voice in such a desolate, gut-wrenching place. As if the little lake and wet, moist cave walls had seen far too many things, far too many atrocities to disgrace it with loud, cluttering noises.

He shivered, the feeling of disgust making a shudder run up his spine.

“There is the gate, Master Regulus, on the other side.” Kreacher rasped, gripping his cloak. “Kreacher will take Master to the entrance.”

There was a woosh of air, the familiar feeling of being sucked into a tight tube, and Regulus was suddenly standing on the other side of the lake, in front of a high, rock wall, one with no entrance in sight. He lifted a hand, placing it on the rock, frowning. The stone was cool; the moisture in the air making it wet, and his hand came off damp.

“Master must make a sacrifice.” Kreacher’s words were taking on a panicked edge, and Regulus could see that he was trying his hardest to do what he had ordered, even if it meant going back to the place where the Dark Lord had tortured him.

Regulus’s stomach dropped to his shoes. “ _Blood?”_

_A blood rite is the most vulgar and dark magic,_ he remembered his tutor saying, _Respected wizards do not use it unless absolutely necessary._

His mother had sent the man away, after she’d seen him take out a muggle fairytale to Sirius’s insistence, but Regulus would never forget the look on his face as he’d spat those words; fear, pure unadulterated fear.

Regulus knew that there were levels to blood magic. Rites and pathways and wards were considered mundane, light even. Anything that had the user slit a knife across their wrist was _dark_. He’d raged against the argument once; thinking that it was unfair to label magic as such, unfair to discriminate against any and everyone who used it, unconcerned with intent.

As he stood in front of the black rock, his hands in his pockets, wand poking into his wrist, he knew different.

This wasn’t the Blood Magic used the way it should have been. This was _different._ This felt _wrong._

“’Tis vulgar.” Kreacher whispered, drawing Regulus from his thoughts, a shudder wracking his elfin body. “The Dark Lord made Kreacher make the sacrifice.”

With shaking hands, Regulus drew his wand and rolled up his sleeve. His skin chilled, goosebumps erupting in the cold air and he gritted his jaw as he pressed his wand against his palm.

There was a spurt of red, and then the wall of rock glittered with scarlet, beads of blood trickling down its surface. Pain lanced up his arm and Regulus pressed his lips together as he muttered a healing spell, closing the skin up as fast as he made it.

The skin still pulsed, an ache that would recede in a couple of hours.

There was a flash of light, a groaning sound that echoed around the little lake, and Regulus stepped back, arm on Kreacher’s shoulder, as a bone-white arch materialized in thin air. In front of them lay an expanse of glittering black water, as gleaming as a mirror. It was still, eerily so, and there was not a ripple that disturbed it.

“Is this the right place, Kreacher?” Regulus asked in a low voice. He stared at the dark lake, and inched his way towards the water’s edge. The black, bottomless pool lapped at the rock’s edge, and Regulus didn’t dare move any closer for fear of slipping in.

Something was unhealthy with this place, something that made the hair on the back of his neck raise and his flesh pimple with the sheer _wrongness_ of it all, the overwhelming feeling of fear and loathing—it just felt _wrong_.

Behind him, there was another flash, and the arch was sealed.

His breath stuttered in his chest, as he became submerged in total darkness.

Regulus was overwhelmingly glad for Kreacher’s presence and he pretended like he hadn’t gripped the elf’s shoulder harder than necessary.

_“Lumos Maxima,”_ he hissed, and with a flick of his wand, the lake was illuminated once more.

“There.” Kreacher pointed to the lake. “That is where the Dark Lord takes Kreacher.”

In the middle of the lake, there was an outcrop of jagged rock. Misaligned layers of stone made for a shifty platform, and there was no easy way to climb it, not without the chance of slipping, and drowning in the eerie black lake.

Regulus wanted to cry. He wanted to turn around and run all the way back home, to tell Kreacher to _forget it_ , to bring him back, bring him _home._ He would still make it to Hogwarts that evening and he could sit down in the Great Hall and have some delicious pudding and wake up early for classes’ tomorrow morning.

He didn’t want to die on the last day of Winter Break.

Regulus could already imagine the funeral now. Walburga would sob and cry and scream out her grief, anger and loss twisting her ageing face into a horrible expression and she would sink to her knees before his coffin and beg for her little boy again. Orion would be stoic and still, his eyes red, mouth devastatingly severe. Narcissa would cry for him, because they were always strangely close. Bellatrix would mutter something about loyalties and sniff that her cousin had died for what was right, for what he believed in.

He could do it, he knew. He could turn around and pretend this didn’t exist, pretend that he didn’t know of the Dark Lord’s horcrux.

But he couldn’t.

He had hurt _Kreacher._

He would do it again.

So, he swallowed down the debilitating fear, the horrible heat of tantalizing temptation and gripped his wand tightly. The locket burned in his outer pocket, and he thought of the taunting note stuck in its case. A wan smile stretched across his face as he imagined the Dark Lord’s fury, his devastating rage.

“You’ll get yours.” He muttered under his breath.

Then he turned to Kreacher, determined.

“How do we get there, Kreacher?” he asked, hands trembling.

His elf looked at him, beady eyes wide and panicked, and pointed a finger to the bottomless water. “There’s a boat, Master Regulus. The Dark Lord leaves it there for later.”

Regulus swallowed, and turned towards the water. As he reached for the water, Kreacher dragged him back. The elf was trembling, his bat-like ears quivering and he was wide-eyed in panic. His words were rasping and stuttering as he asked to, “Please let Kreacher do it, Master Regulus.”

He nodded and Kreacher leaned forward, hand slipping into the water and gripping something invisible. He muttered something under his breath, and then a chain flickered into vision, the metal swallowed by the algae, rusted and corroding under Kreacher’s touch. It slunk through the elf’s hand and curled itself onto the rock floor, clinking against the stone, echoing across the silent lake.

A boat broke the surface of the water, and Regulus watched with baited breath as the water around it rippled. Something flashed underneath the surface and his gaze sharpened on the movement, breath catching in his throat.

The feeling of unnaturalness returned, and the hair at the back of his neck rose once more.

“Master Regulus is to be taking this boat to the rocks,” Kreacher rasped out. His hands had begun to shake.

“Kreacher.” Regulus cleared his throat and looked down at the elf, head on. “When we get to the island, I want you to replace the locket with the one I have here—“he drew the locket out of his cloak pocket and placed it into the elf’s awaiting hand, “—and then I want you to apparate out of here.”

“Master Regulus—!” The elf began to wail, tears welling up in his black eyes. “Kreacher is to be protecting his Master, Kreacher must not be leaving Master Regulus—“

_“Kreacher,”_ Regulus said firmly, voice just a touch too harsh. “Your word as an elf of the Noble House of Black.”

Kreacher let out another wail. It echoed loudly in the dimly lit cave; there was a twist of movement under the water, but this time, Regulus paid it no mind.

“Kreacher is giving his word,” the elf sobbed. “Kreacher is to be promising Master Regulus.”

“Good.” Regulus said, even though the word tasted like ash on his tongue.

_Don’t leave me,_ he wanted to shout, to yell. _Please don’t leave me alone._

He had screamed those words all his life, and he’d never meant them more than he did now. The fear was debilitating, paralyzing. He wanted to cry, to sob, to scream. He wanted to collapse onto the ground and never wake. He wanted to forget that a Dark Lord ever existed, and live out a peaceful life on the edge of a moor, forever surrounded by bubbling potions, and the smell of mildew.

He wanted Sirius to come home, and to look at him like he’d once done: as a brother. He wanted his Mother to stop caring about Muggles and Mudbloods and Creatures. He wanted his Father to come out of his study and stop looking down his nose at everyone with lesser blood; to look at Regulus like he mattered.

Regulus wanted to _live._

He blinked hard, and then rose, stepping hesitantly towards the boat. It looked like it would pitch right over, leaving anyone who boarded to drown. Righteous determination burned through him as he stared out at the glittering, black lake and he stepped onto the boat.

It groaned, and for a single, terrifying moment, Regulus genuinely thought he would drown. Then it stabilized and he sat down, and gestured for Kreacher to come with. The elf sat on the boat, claws digging into the wood. They rowed slowly, carefully, neither daring to breathe a breath too deep, or too fast.

When they finally reached the outcrop of rock, Regulus breathed out a sigh of relief.

He scoured the rock slowly, making great care not to slip up on the moss, and rotting seaweed, hands digging into the slate stones as deeply as he could. When he finally hauled himself up to the top, he stilled as he spotted the chalice; a glittering, marble white, carved stone; opaque water that was menacingly still.

“Is this—“Regulus sucked in a breath. “Is this it, Kreacher?”

Kreacher, trembling, looked at him with wide, red-rimmed eyes and a stuttering mouth. “Y-Yes Master R-Regulus. ‘Tis being the ch-chalice.”

He took in a deep breath, his shoulders rising to his ears, and taking half a step forward, he peered into the chalice.

It was clear.

Inside, there lay a glowing locket, the glimmer of gold catching on the light of his spell.

There was something enormous building in the back of his throat as he stared down at the shimmer of gold, the clear, unmoving water, untouched by wind or air. It looked untouchable there—a case of ice, never to be broken.

Something wet and slick pressed into his hand and Regulus looked down to find Kreacher handing him the half of a conch shell. His elf’s lips trembled, and his beady eyes were so wide they looked painful.

“Thank you, Kreacher.” He croaked.

The fear made him dizzy as he stared into the chalice, but he glanced back to Kreacher, “I have to drink?”

“Y-Yes Master,” Kreacher nearly sobbed, clutching his dirtied shift. He looked miserable, terrified. The elf’s ears were flat against his head, and his little heart beat a tattoo against his sagging throat.

“All of it?” Regulus pressed, even though his hands were shaking.

He didn’t know what the potion could be. He didn’t know if it even _was_ a potion—or if it was simply poison. He didn’t know if he’d even be able to drink it all, or if his throat would clench around his breath and choke him.

He stared at the glimmer of gold once more. It sat there, unaffected, and Regulus wondered how Voldemort had slipped a piece of his soul into this tiny, little, insignificant relic. Who he’d killed to do it. Was it a muggle? Or a Mudblood?

…A pureblood?

Regulus didn’t know, and that alone terrified him to the core.

He swallowed.

_Alright_ , he told himself, _no more stalling, now, Reg, you’ve got to finish what you’ve started._

Sweat gathered at his temples and the nape of his neck, dampening the ponytail he’d pulled it in.

His hands shook as he lowered the conch shell into the chalice. It broke the water, ripples spreading out like a spiderweb, and out of the corner of his eye, Regulus saw movement. He paid little attention as he drew the shell back out, letting it hover before his lips.

Kreacher seemed to rasp out a pleading, but Regulus brought it to his mouth and the cool, thick, potion ran down his throat.

For a moment, he felt fine.

And then—

_Fire._

He was on _fire._ Pain lanced through his spine, and he stood rigid, hands trembling, as he dipped the shell back into the potion once more.

He lost track of time as he drank more and more. Nausea rose in him, like a tide of fear, and he moaned in pain as the potion brought him to his knees. It brought him no relief from the pain that rang throughout his body; his fingers ached, his joints old and cracking. He wanted to _die_ , he wanted to have never come here.

His pants echoed around the cave, and he pressed his forehead against the cold of the chalice.

Regulus twitched, spasms rocking his body as he begged silently for relief.

“M-Master,” Kreacher rasped. A cool hand came to touch the back of his neck. “Master must continue.”

He sobbed. “ _Please_ , Kreacher, _Please let me stop.”_

The hand shook. “N-No Master. Master must continue.”

Regulus shook his head, crying, sobbing; hysteria rose in him like an iron fist, and he felt the conch being pried from his fingers. It hurt to let it go, it hurt to curl his fingers into fists, it hurt to _breathe_ —

A cool, dull edge met his lips.

_He’ll do it again,_ he thought, delirious, _he’ll hurt Kreacher again._

Regulus swallowed.

Kreacher sobbed as he forced him to drink. Regulus pleaded, and begged, and thrashed as he desperately tried to stop drinking. He wanted to die; his lips were bloodied from begging, and his skin felt like even the slightest touch would break him. He wanted to _die—_

“Master must continue,” Kreacher would croak.

And Regulus would swallow.

_Let it stop,_ he begged and he wasn’t sure if he was screaming in his mind or out loud. His throat ached. His hands were raw. His mind felt blank, and broken, like someone had crushed all the life from his body.

_Please, please, kill me, kiLL ME!_

He swallowed again, throat aching.

Tears dripped down his cheeks, mingling with the clear potion, and salt bloomed on his tongue like an old friend.

_Stop, please stop, no more, no more, nomore—_

“Al-Almost done, Master Reg-Regulus.” Kreacher soothed. “Almost done, Master, almost done.”

_No, please no, please no—_

He was boneless. He was desperate and gasping and flush against the cold, stone floor.

_Water,_ he wanted to gasp, but stopped himself.

Something smooth and cool fell into his grasp, and Regulus barely had the strength to pry his eyes open. Gold glimmered in his hand. Regulus sobbed out a laugh, blood dripping down his chin.

He rose his gaze to Kreacher, who looked back at him anxiously.

Regulus’s body throbbed as he lifted a shaking hand and pushed the locket back into Kreacher’s grasp.

“Kreach—Kreacher…” he rasped. “Take…Take the other…other locket…switch—”

Regulus coughed, his whole body wracked with the force of it.

He closed his eyes when he saw Kreacher nod, and faraway, he heard the clink of metal on glass. Peace filled him, and the fear left him for the first time in three weeks.

And then Kreacher _screamed_ , a hysterical wail of terror filling the cave, and Regulus bolted up, eyes shooting open, ignoring the burn of his joints, and the throb of pain against his temples.

A naked, wet, pale creature had grabbed the elf. Its eyes were gone, rotting caverns of skin falling away at Kreacher’s frantic touch. Its body was skeletal, and yet it was fiercely strong, its rotted mouth twisting to form a terrifying snarl. It wailed, high and fierce, and gripped Kreacher’s tunic harder.

The spell left his mouth before he could think, “ _Expelliarmus!”_

The thing went flying back, body ripping apart like it was parchment, and crashed into the water with a massive splash.

“Kreacher—” Regulus started, and the elf rushed him.

The feeling of wet, cold, dead flesh on his own made him stop in his tracks. He snapped his head around, a scream loosening from his throat as the smell of dead carcass filled his nose; another one had climbed onto the outcrop, and Regulus felt like his heart had stopped dead in his chest.

All around them, the pale creatures were moaning, groaning as they slithered onto the rock.

It was a split-second choice, but to Regulus it felt like an eternity.

The fear, heady and bitter pressed on his tongue and he wanted to _lie_ , he wanted to _go home so badly,_ he wanted to _live._ He caught sight of the glimmering gold in Kreacher’s hands, and thought _of course._ His mouth twisted bitterly. _Of course,_ he thought, and remembered vivid red eyes, and too-pale skin. Remembered smug, haughty looks and furious tempers. Remembered seductive promises, made from exalted lips.

The Inferi’s grip was immovable.

“ _Kreacher!”_ he bellowed, _“I order you to leave!”_

A desperate, high-pitch wail cleaved itself from Kreacher’s lips.

Fear drove him to brutality, _“Now!”_

He heard it, not a split-second later; the crack of apparition.

Regulus opened his eyes, and then screwed them shut.

He didn’t want to see—he didn’t want to _know._

He smelt the dead carcass on his skin, and felt the thick, choppy water against his legs, and then—

Regulus felt the grip of the creature on his throat and thought,

_At least he will be stopped._

(And once it left, once the thought fled from his mind, he thought no more.)


	2. Chapter Two

Elaine took the train from London all the way to Devonshire.

Paddington station had been crowded, stuffy and sweaty. Everyone was bustling off for the few weeks of winter break; the air was full of chatter and cheer, bright and happy smiles stretching on people’s faces. Elaine wasn’t one of them; she instead, had struggled all the way to the station, having just clipped the end of her organic chemistry class to reach the station on time.

Her neck was slippery with sweat, hands aching as she pulled the leather of her rickety old suitcase along, the band cutting through the palm of her hand.

It was cold. The kind of cold that bit through your warm clothes and blew a shiver right into your bones. Her cheeks were pink, and her nose was blooming red as she neared the departures board. The hat that she had tugged on wasn’t doing much of a job staying put over her riotous curls, and the gloves on her fingers only made her hands feel slightly less than numb.

She’d promised her Grandmother that she’d make it in time for dinner, but now, as she arrived at the overflowing station, shoulders set against the waves of masses, she wasn’t sure if she would. The trip to Exeter was a tentative two and a half hours, and though the clock was only just striking six, the snowfall had been steadily rising all afternoon, to the point where her canvas shoes were wet and the hem of her bellbottoms were heavy, stiffening with frost.

Elaine scowled, muttering a curse under her breath as she weaved and bobbed through the moving throng of people. Easing her train ticket out of her peacoat pocket, her eyes caught the track her train was departing at.

Her suitcase was small, and she’d left most of her clothes in her dorm at King’s. Her uni had let out in early December, but she’d signed up for an extra organic chemistry course that stretched out for the last couple of weeks coming up on Christmas, courtesy of too much gin and tonic. The notes she’d taken from her last class were stuffed haphazardly in her backpack, along with the rest of her textbooks, and she was sure that if she did end up looking for something in her suitcase, she’d find none of her warm winter socks.

Thankfully, she knew she’d packed her insulin and extra needles, having checked twice, and she’d always made sure she had some in her purse. Not to mention, that if she ran out, she’d be able to grab some more from the clinic that her Aunt Hope worked at.

Her Gran had been thrilled at the prospect of finally getting to spend Christmas with her sister’s daughter. Elaine, not so much. It had been years since she’d seen Aunt Hope and her husband Lyall; years since Gran had brought them all around for Christmas when Elaine was seven, and before they’d even opened their presents the next morning, Hope and Lyall had rushed out of the home, Elaine’s cousin Remus bundled in their arms before Gran could even protest.

Elaine hardly remembered anything about Hope, Lyall or Remus. Gran had told her stories of her sister Giulia, about how she’d met the handsome Scot in Italy during the war, and both had come over the Channel to start a family after it had ended. They had been close, tighter knit than most families, but then Hope had met Lyall, and Great Aunt Giulia died of cancer, and her Scot husband not much after.

Gran hadn’t liked Lyall very much. Elaine remembered that well, because Gran’s mouth always pursed when talking about the uptight Englishman. He wasn’t quite right for Hope, she’d always lament in her thick accent, eyes not focusing on anything as she did.

It had been a surprise when Hope had called them over the landline to ask if they wanted to spend Christmas together.

She remembered the exact moment her Gran had called to tell her. She was chewing on the end of a highlighter, hand stuck in her curls as she ran over her notes one more time before retreating to her dorm, and the librarian had come up to tell her she’d had a phone call from a Cesira Sullivan.

Her Gran, still unused to the developing technology, had shouted into the phone with her thick Italian accent in place, and demanded that Elaine come home to take a break. Elaine had tried to put up a fuss, telling her that she was already preparing for the week back from break, and that she was already starting to read up for incoming assignments, but Cesira had absolutely no intention of letting her only granddaughter freeze in a tiny little student dorm, and eat meager, cold turkey from the Sainsbury’s down the road.

“You will come,” Cesira had stated, no room for questioning or pleading. “You will eat my food! I will make you real food like my good lasagna, e la pasta con ragu—not the plastic things you chew on to keep you from starving. And—lovely Hope is coming with her famiglia, tesoro. Little Remo too.”

So here she was, after three escalators, one faulty ticket machine, and a near miss of her gate, standing on the right track number at Victoria Station, seven minutes past six waiting for her train.

She had emerged on an empty platform, breathless from all the shoving and pushing she’d had to do to get there. The wind howled, battering on the glass windows overhead like a woman scorned, and Elaine prayed that the snowstorm hadn’t reached London yet.

The weather had been getting strange recently, all over the country. The news had promised them cold, biting nights, with deadly frost creeping over the ground, as silent as the grim. And yet, there had been more and more gas leaks and explosions happening than ever before, despite the weather not inciting any incidents. Fires had started all over London, one day, and everyone remained indoors for weeks after the enormous explosion in Covent Garden. People had been getting paranoid, and Elaine had heard more and more mutterings of things going afoot, happening unseen in dark corners, leashing their tongues inside their mouths and averting their eyes.

Out of sight, her friend Grace - a quiet, happy girl from the countryside - had said quietly, and out of mind.

Her Gran had called after each and every time, worried through the roof that somehow Elaine had gotten caught in one of them. And no matter how many times Elaine had tried to pass it off as nothing, Cesira would mutter things under her breath, things about veiled, hidden forces and people not to be trusted.

Pockets of her breath blazed clouds through the twinkling night, and she wiggled her frozen fingers to try and get some warmth back into them. She shivered, squinting as she glanced across the empty tracks, trying to catch a sign of movement that meant her train could be coming. The decorations glimmered in the glow of the station lights, gaudy red baubles and shimmering gold wrapped around columns, accompanied by pinewood wreaths, dangling mistletoe, and glittering tacky banners, with words like _Christmas is Claus for Celebration_ , or _Oh Deer, Christmas is here!_

She could still hear the cheerful chattering from the station below as her train finally rolled up; whispered excitement, tales of traditions and memories floating through the frozen night. People shouldered their way off the carriages, and Elaine smiled, basking in the festivity that they carried, even if it all felt so far away.

It had been a hard, grueling week, and even now as she stood out of the way of the rush of people, trying to relax, her mind was reeling from the intense amount of study. Her fingers were still stained black and blue with ink, lips cracked from chewing on them so much, and Elaine knew Cesira would fuss and mother and hover until she was healthy again and feeling somewhat ready to face the upcoming semester.

She was lugging her clunky old suitcase along, the stream of train-riders having ceased somewhat, heaving a little with the effort of getting it on the train when she heard it. The distinct, echoing sound of a crack.

Elaine stopped for a moment, craning her head back, her brows coming together in confusion. For a moment she thought she recognised that sound—hadn't it been just outside her window the other night? But she didn't _quite_ remember— she'd been studying all through till the morning, after all, and her head got quite fuzzy at times.

A conductor clicked his tongue in frustration a few steps away from her, an older gentleman with a bushy white beard. He'd gotten off the train to check the doors earlier, and now he stood talking to a younger man, "Och, those young'uns. Always messing about them shops."

He gestured vaguely back over the tracks, towards the line of high, arching windows that were dark and abandoned, closed for the evening. "I wonder when the coppers are _ever_ going to get off their fat arses and deal with'em."

"Aye," Said the man he was talking to, a wiry-looking man with a fierce look. "I've been telling Marcus to lock up even earlier, if possible - the shops are always the first ones to be broken into."

Elaine sucked in a breath. So, they'd been happening everywhere then, those break-ins. And for the strangest reasons too—Grace had been telling her that once a young-looking man had even grabbed a shop keep, threatened and questioned him and then left without even taking any money from the till—in a span of only fifteen minutes, at that.

The younger one shook his head, his floppy brown hair tangling in his eyes. "Lara Mae said she even saw them once - said they looked strange, with long flowing dresses and odd sticks in their hands." Then he smiled a little, warmth coming to his fierce face. "But aye, she's a bit heavy-handed on the liquor there, so maybe that's why she said she'd been seeing those flashing red and green lights."

Something tickled Elaine's memory at that; blurry shapes and the sound of shouting in the background, someone's heavy hand resting on her arm.

She shook her head, leaning closer, still clutching her luggage and trying to keep track of what the pair were saying.

The bearded conductor clicked his tongue and tugged at the lapels of his uniform, puffing out his rather robust chest. He checked his clock before answering. "Now! Travers, I won't be hearing bad things about Lara Mae. She's a hard-working girl and she volunteers at the shelters around this time. Been giving them street children presents and all. She's a lovely lass. Even gave me a scarf ‘round New Year's last year!"

The younger conductor opened his mouth to answer and then spotted her still halfway up the train steps. "Oi! If you're going to Devonshire, you'd better get on quick - them doors about to be closing!"

Elaine gasped, stuttered out a quick thank you, which the conductor nodded at, and then clambered onto the train, heaving her clunking suitcase behind her just as the doors began to wail close.

As the train shuddered to a start, she stared at the line of darkened, closed shops, heart beating wildly. For a moment, she thought she saw a flicker of red. She blinked, and the light was gone before she could squint to check, the train whisking her out of the station and onto the rickety tracks carrying her home.


	3. Chapter Three

Remus John Lupin was not in the business of being startled.

No, he had not been startled since that night his childhood window had creaked open, and deep, gouging claws had streaked down his thin back, and stinking, jagged teeth had sunk into his shoulder.

That night was the only night he ever remembered the fear of being caught unawares. Opening sleep-addled eyes, the last blurry images he'd ever see soulless black eyes, snarling teeth and a terrible, hungry smile. The jump of his throat. The split second of disbelief, followed by a fear so captivating, it had rooted itself into his existence.

Then, after…after everything…the despair.

The hospital was agony. He had slept, and awoken, feverish, sweating, writhing in pain, in Mungo's intensive care ward, with only his father's blanched face hovering above him, his mother barred from entry. Muggles, his father recounted to him later, had adverse reactions to Wizarding healthcare. Lyall didn't tell him that his screams were etched into memory, spilling out into the corridors and haunting the halls, shame and loss filling him with every rising shout.

The sounds kept getting louder and louder, until they rattled his brain and it felt like his teeth, his tongue, nails and ears were bleeding. Or worse, _itching_. It wasn't often he could hear individual words, nor the long-winded, exhausted tirades his father would embark on, but he remembered some, deep, and locked away in his heart; sympathetic, twitching brown eyes, a twisted mouth, words that felt like poison over his skin: _you should let him go, Lyall. It would be a small comfort…this death._

Remus didn't _know_ what death was, not then. And yet, it had scared him, that single word, traumatized him so deeply, he refused to look at the kind healer when she entered his room again to spread soothing salve onto his face.

_Dead. Someone wanted him dead._

He could smell the necrosis of the sanitarium on every corner; gagging when nurses came towards him, fainting when it all got too much. The sanitizing spells, wiping away bloodied, cursed remains, and yet, the smell lingered on, unable to be touched. The doctors reminded him of his mother's old French language books, walking plagues, long, masked faces distorted by his fever, bringing only the faintest of reliefs.

It took seven days for the transformation. Seven, tortuously agonized days; a week of Lyall sitting at his bedside, hair in disarray from tugging at the long, unwashed strands; a week of Hope sobbing quietly at home, eyes stained a permanent red, lips stuck in a grieving wobble.

_(No one would know. That Remus Lupin would live._

His parents swore that to themselves.

Lyall would never forget the pity in Healer Laura Ingridson's eyes as she told him to let his son die. Hope did not let the sight of her son, her tiny, seizing, four-year old son, gingerly dragged out of the home by those magical policemen, _Aurors_ , bereavement cutting into their mouths, though even worse was the _resignation._

It would be a tragedy, to let him live this half-life, they'd said.

_And so,_ they'd promised themselves in the darkness of the night, with tears and determination staining their lips, _no one would ever know. Their little boy, their little Remus, would live; as free as he was able._ )

It was on the eighth day that he awoke. On the eighth day, Remus did not startle at the footsteps of the healer who'd wished him dead. Nor did he jerk at his father's fingers brushing away sweat-stained locks, or the rushing of the magic that filled the room.

_("Good morning! How are you both doing today? Lyall, Remus is going to have to—"_

_"Petrificus Totalus!"_

_Remus's ears twitched at the soft, determined steps his father took._

_The sound of a chin being tilted backwards, slackened hair hitting the floor. A small, gasping exhale._

_Then - "You're going to tell your boss that you let us go. That, out of the goodness of your Hufflepuff heart, you let me, and my son return home. Not to the werewolf packs. Not to the department of Magical Creatures. That there were no other problems. Anything else - you'll forget."_

_The smell of salt and wet. Remus's nose twitched._

_"Don't worry Laura." His father soothed. His voice sounded strange - like he was talking to a scared, young deer, ready to bolt. "Remember, this is your professional decision. You trust yourself, don't you?"_

_And after; softly, ever so quietly, "Obliviate"._

_Glinting, shiny teeth in a confused smile. Blinking, happy, brown eyes. "You're ready…to…to go home, Remus. Aren't you glad?")_

His father took him home quickly, bundling him up in one of his enormous beige sweaters his mother liked to tease him about, humming to him quietly. His mother sobbed into his hair when he got home, and he could smell the vomit on her teeth, and the tears tangled in her hair. They had kept him pressed between them, and their tears dripped steadily down his cheeks.

Remus Lupin had not startled since.

He could hear the beat of a butterfly's wings flutter from seven meters away. On quiet nights in the Gryffindor tower, he could hear every single heart pumping quickly, encased in sleeping chests. Every whisper of breath, every dragging, sliding noise and shifting movement was caught by sensitive ears. He did not jump when Lily surprised him in the library, nor did he jerk when Sirius swung his arm over his shoulder suddenly. They had not - could not - get past his ears.

And then - his nose. Remus was always able to smell when James and Sirius were making stink bombs. The stench, even washed away by water, lingered in their pores, clogging his nose, giving him the worst migraines. He could smell a kilometer away; potent perfumes lingering on skin, water and soap still drying over the backs of people's hands. Whatever little creature, small or large, he could smell out, recognize and hone in on. It made his teeth hurt, and his mouth water, but he tried not to think of that, because he remembered those soulless eyes, stinking teeth and hungry grin.

_(Remus wasn't like Greyback, but he was a wolf, and he never failed to remember that.)_

But it was his eyes that made it nigh impossible to creep up on him. Those eagle-sharp eyes of his, as his mother liked to tease, unfailing and constant, clearing dark shadows and obscure echoes of specters, stretching over vast space, tracking every single alteration in movement. There had been no fear since Greyback. No unadulterated panic at being caught unaware.

And yet, despite all this, Remus had startled - _jumped even_ \- at the sharp _crack!_ of apparition.

It was the early evening, when it happened; Remus doubted that he would ever forget about it. The cold northern wind billowing out against their windowpanes, rattling the entire apartment and fluffy snow steadily fell from thick, grey clouds, catching on every sharp and dull edge, having begun piling up in the early evening, was now glinting softly in the murky moonlight. The world seemed small in that moment - Remus, alone in his room, tired and aching, mind entirely occupied with other things.

_(Other things that did not involve the stiffness of his shoulders, the lines stretching deep next to his mouth, or the new scratches that twinged every time he moved.)_

Enveloped in a film of focused relaxation, he had been watering his new cactus, a distinctly magical kind this time - one cultivated in Egypt to produce pretty, blue and white flowers, that were supposed to help with the transitions - measuring exactly how many drops they needed. His parents had gotten it for him his last birthday, his mother tentatively shuffling his long, uncut hair. He had made a cup of steaming tea, put on his favorite, coziest gray jumper and decided to spend the night devoting his time to figuring out just what was killing his plant.

James and Sirius had ambled their way in from a night drinking merely moments ago, the rousing shouts down the street giving him an inkling of when they would've arrived, with Lily and Marlene in tow, already bickering about who got to use the bathroom first.

He'd smiled a bit at that, prodding at his cactus again.

Peter, who had come in just after them, scrambling through the doorway with a wheeze, was already out cold, having made a beeline to his bed as soon as he'd stepped into the apartment. The snores coming from his room now echoed into the cramped living room, making Sirius and James laugh that their friend would never change. It was nice - this respite from the tension that brewed down below in the streets—and on his friends’ faces.

But Remus startled—the dropper-pippet his Mum had sent him in the post a week ago from their home pharmacy clattering from his hands, the cactus he’d been paying attention to slipping from the balcony onto the floor, compact dirt and water staining the carpet beneath his bare toes—and he jerked backwards, hand reaching for the wand in his pocket.

He was already half-shouting a spell when the words died in his mouth—halfway stuck.

There was a breath of shock, a half minute of pure, unadulterated confusion and panic at the sight of what lay before him: sopping wet and clothes sagging with the weight of dirtied water, far too slender, thick black hair plastered against deathly pale cheeks, wet streams steadily streaming down them.

It was that same feeling again: caught entirely unaware, struck dumb and silly with alarm. Distantly, he felt the corners of his mouth pull into a bitter smile. He hadn't felt that in a long, long while.

Regulus Black looked so very young then, lying haphazardly on the floor, limbs spread around him like a broken doll, younger than Remus remembered seeing him. On his ring finger of his right hand, twitching just a little bit around an oaken wand, a heavy black signet ring glinted dully in the faint light of Remus's room. He was far wanner than Remus thought healthy. Little breath rose in his chest, and Remus could hear the way his lungs struggled to catch it. His mouth was turning a soft, dangerous blue, eyes twitching under thunderous brows and heavier lids.

For half a moment, Remus thought he must be dreaming.

_There was no way. Absolutely no way -_

Little Lord Black; capricious and muggle-hating Death-Eater, bitterness spewing from an aristocratic mouth; Remus could not place the sight he had now, with that of what he remembered of Regulus: bitter, biting child, with an edge to his walk, a knife in his mouth, and none of his brother's tawdry charm.

He was soaking into the carpet, Remus thought absent-minded, riveted on the way that Regulus's ring finger twitched. The wand had slipped from his fingers by then, rolling all the way to Remus's feet, clinking softly against his wet socks.

He started at the sight - time and space did not exist, and it was only the dark handle of a Black's wand that lay before him, innocently blinking in the low light.

He shivered.

And then time, noise and smell started anew, Sirius, James and Lily thundering into the room, faces serious and wands pointed, questions foaming at their mouths. James was sweating, undoubtedly nervous. Lily's heart beat endlessly quick in her chest. Sirius's breaths were not drawn out, coming ever quicker.

Far, far away, he could hear Marlene in the bathroom stop her humming.

Remus clenched his wand once more, brandishing it before him like a sword, trained on Regulus's unconscious body. Part of him snorted at the ridiculousness of the motion—the boy wasn't even _awake._ The other part snarled, reminding him that _he had been caught unaware. Again._

James was the one to start talking, "Moony what happened, are you alright—?".

But it was Sirius, Auror training coming swiftly into play and scanning the room quickly, who noticed his brother first. He blinked. His wand drooped, just the slightest amount. He blinked again, something rising in his grey eyes.

Silence reigned.

"Is that…" Lily breathed. Remus thought she looked even more pale than usual. Her wand wavered from its point, mouth curling into shock. "…that's Regulus, Remus…"

"Merlin…" James breathed out, staring down at Sirius's little brother.

Remus swallowed. "He just - appeared."

"Appeared." Sirius said, flatly. He had not looked away from Regulus yet. Lily looked at him, worried. She gnawed at her lip before turning back to Remus.

"Out of—out of nowhere?"

Remus shrugged, shoulders dropping from their defensive stance. His fingers still twitched on his wand, the snarling side of him crying out for blood—at the very least, vindication. "Yeah. Apparated right in."

At that Sirius's head snapped up. "What?" Sharp, burning intellect rose in his face. "Regulus hasn't done his test yet. No license."

James snorted, "Mate, with your family, I don't think—"

" _James!_ " Hissed Lily, throwing an elbow into his stomach and making James yelp.

Remus nearly grinned at the familiar sight, even though Regulus still wasn't breathing enough and getting paler by the minute.

Sirius shook his head. "No. _No._ Mother…she insisted that we did it right. Threw a fit when I got it without her, remember that?"

"Yeah…that's true…" James's eyebrows drew together. "He isn't splinched either…it doesn't _look_ like he tried to do it himself. When I tried the first time…I…got myself stuck between a railing, and that was _with_ practice. Regulus wouldn't be able to do it on the first try…not without practicing."

Lily coughed a bit. She'd had a cold all week and was still getting better. Tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear, she looked terribly somber as she spoke, "But then that means…someone—"

"Dropped him here." Sirius finished. His face was blank, but his eyes burned. "Someone— _anyone_ —knew we lived here. That we'd be here."

They all looked down at Regulus. Still unconscious, wet and twitching. Still turning whiter and whiter, blue creeping into his lips.

Remus suddenly felt exhausted. He ran a hand over his face, sighing.

"Someone needs to call the fucking Order."

…

Mad-Eye Moody nearly bust a goddamn lung screaming at all of them.

Marlene, having only been informed of what occurred in the moments she'd been away in the bathroom, looked cowed. Traces of hastily wiped mascara still lingered, smudged near her eyes, and the smell of her products made Remus's head ache.

Peter, who'd been woken by the shouting, had innocently come stumbling in the living room to find the unconscious Black Heir and a purple-faced Moody, screaming at the top of his lungs, and subsequently fell backwards into the couch. He hadn't gotten up since.

After James had called it in to the Order, resignation and anxiety settling in his face, and Moody had barged into their shitty flat (as he had eloquently put it in his roaring tirade), other members had slunk in, slowly filling up their humble home. Currently, those who'd answered the call were Gideon and Fabian, Moody ( _obviously_ ), McGonagall - who had brought Madame Pomfrey with her, Edgar Bones, Caradoc Dearborn and Benjy Fenwick. They'd all gone a deathly pale when they realized the enormity of the situation.

As soon as she had set eyes on the young Black, Madame Pomfrey had levitated him onto the kitchen table, all signs of lingering amusement fleeing from her face. She worked on him quietly now, muttering strings of curse-words, her face going paler and paler as she whirled and spelled things away.

McGonagall stood over her, handing her the things she needed, eyes roving over Regulus's twitching body, mouth curling into a familiar grimace. Sometimes they would stop, look at each other with something rising in their faces, and then continue, seemingly more determined the before.

Sirius sat a ways away from her, feigning indifference, but Remus saw that every now and then, his eyes flitted back towards his brother, and a shadow settled over his face. James sat with Lily, who held his hand, and they were the ones who bore the brunt of Moody's tirade, especially after seeing just how pale Remus was beginning to turn, and the way his hands had started to tremble.

"—I CANNOT BELIEVE THAT A KNOWN DEATH-EATER _APPARATED_ INTO YOUR VERY OWN APARTMENT! HAVE YOU NO WARDS? DID YOU NOT LISTEN TO THE TEACHINGS I GAVE YOU—!"

James, apparently having enough, and insulted at the very idea that he hadn't protected himself against potential Death Eater raids, shouted back: "He just appeared, Mad-Eye, it's not like we bloody _invited_ him in!"

Remus groaned when Moody proceeded to turn white in anger.

Just as the Auror opened his mouth again, no doubt to shout back twice as loud, Bones and Dearborn stepped in.

"No, Moody, he's right." Dearborn nodded at James, who had jumped up in his anger. "Their wards are all still in place. From basic to complicated, all are still there."

Lily's eyebrows knotted. "But…that doesn't make sense. I—well, we—made the wards so that they'd protect against evildoers, those with harmful thoughts, muggles…I don't know _how_ Regulus could have gotten through. We all know that he took the—"

_Dark mark._ The implications lay heavy in the air.

She stopped herself abruptly, looking guiltily over to Sirius whose face had turned to stone. "Um…"

"Blood wards." Sirius said softly, before the silence was too much. He was looking at his brother, something growing in his face, his tone too placid for what he usually spoke like. Remus thought he looked tired, if not exhausted just looking at Regulus. "I added a Blood ward. Not a dark one…but…"

Bones cursed. "With enough urgency, anyone with shared blood could break in—"

Remus sat up, confused, "Why?"

Lily shook her head. "Oh, but of _course_. I'm so ridiculous— _familial duty!_ Blood wards are grey magic, so they've everything to do with intent, and familial duty—or rather, presumed biological imperative—plays an enormous part in that intent. If Regulus was distraught enough—"

Sirius scoffed, crossing his arms and James shot him a concerned look. Lily continued without listening.

"—he could contest the bonds and demand they let him. But—"

"That still doesn't explain how he got in though. Especially as _he's unconscious._ " Remus interrupted. "Regulus hasn't gotten his license yet, had no practice or anything. Someone else brought him here."

A short, troubled silence ensued. Everyone looked uneasily at the young Black, who lay unconscious, still.

"Well." Moody groused. His mouth looked like he'd bit directly into a lemon as he gestured towards the unconscious boy. "We'd better call Dumbledore. He'll know what to do with him."

"I'll go." Professor McGonagall said immediately, though turning to Pomfrey for permission, and when given, apparated away.

She returned not five minutes later, Professor Dumbledore in tow.

Remus felt something ease off his shoulders, even if it was absolutely nutters to see his old headmaster out of Hogwarts. He looked bizarre there - in the middle of their apartment - like he didn't belong. But, Remus knew, that if anyone knew anything about this strange, weird occurrence, it would be Dumbledore. He knew things that Remus could not even dream of.

His old headmaster looked around the room gravely. Moody gave him a sign of welcome, but everyone else was too tense, too expectant. Marlene shifted on the couch, and Peter looked paler, even more ill than before.

Dumbledore's long, silvery hair trailed across his folded arms, brushing over immaculate blue robes as he took all their faces in. "I have heard some strange news this evening."

His eyes moved past Sirius, who looked anxious, to Madame Pomfrey who was shaking her head. "I see we have an unexpected visitor. Young Regulus Black, I presume?"

"Yes." Moody grumbled. "He apparently apparated—"

"Reggie didn't _know_ how to apparate, Moody—" Sirius cut in.

Moody continued, "Through the wards. Dead to the world, twitching and the like. He still hasn't woken up."

Dumbledore hummed, looking pensive.

"We think," Peter suddenly spoke up, looking unnerved under Dumbledore's gaze. "Well, that, er…we think it was because of the minor blood ward. But…Sirius said that Regulus didn't know how to apparate. Hadn't even had any lessons."

"I was not aware that you still kept in contact with your brother, Mr. Black." Dumbledore mused quietly. Sirius looked uncomfortable, shifting away from the headmaster's inquisitive tone.

"He wasn't splinched." Sirius avoided the question neatly. "That's how we know. He wasn't splinched at all, no split skin or hair about him. He wouldn't have known how to do that yet. Even with practice."

"Doesn't mean he didn't learn. With your family, we have no idea what he was taught." Moody sniped. Sirius glared at him, mouth opening to shoot some biting quip, but Dumbledore interrupted.

"I think its best we wait for him to wake." The headmaster said. "He can tell his story best. Any assumptions will no doubt prove to be misleading."

Caradoc Dearborn, looking incredulous, said, "And just where exactly are we going to do that? He's a Death Eater! Who knows who's looking for him?"

McGonagall, who had gravitated back towards Pomfrey and was helping her mash a green-looking salve into a paste, said, "Well, we just have to keep him safe then, won't we, Mr. Dearborn?"

The entire room erupted into chaos.

Bones, who'd previously looked rather calm, though worried, had a sneer filling his face and said something nasty about hosting a Death Eater. Dearborn just threw his arms into the air and exclaimed that this would be fraternizing with the enemy. Fabian and Gideon, who had until now remained quiet and out of the way, protested that Regulus could be found - either by his own desire to be stumbled across, or by others who could track him down. Marlene stayed quiet but looked more and more unnerved, her cheeks going paler. Peter looked positively green at the mere thought of what McGonagall had suggested.

"SILENCE!" Moody shouted. Everyone winced at the loud noise, "Arguing about this now won't help us. We've to make a decision." He turned towards Dumbledore, who was waiting patiently to speak. "Albus. What do you think we should do?"

"Minerva is correct." Dumbledore said calmly. His voice calmed those who were still grumbling. "Regulus Black could prove to be a blessing in disguise. My sources have told me that the Voldemort has taken an interest in him. He could know many things."

"Right." Moody agreed. "Pump him for information. I suppose we're keeping him hostage then?"

Sirius made a growling noise. His eyes looked like living embers. "That's my _brother,_ Moody."

"Oh, get over it boy," Moody barked back. He had turned to stare Sirius down, eyes flashing. "Your brother's a Death Eater! He's made his choice. _You_ of all people should know that—"

"Alastor." Dumbledore interjected. His cloudy blue eyes were twinkling, as usual, but his face had an underlying shadow of solemnity. "That is quite enough. Regulus Black shall be our…guest…for a while. It is just a matter of time before he wakes. We should ensure his cooperation through all means possible."

"He's a bloody menace, though ain't he?" Gideon piped up, only a little bitterly. In the low light of the room and the darkness of the night, his copper hair looked a dull brown. His eyes, green and bright, looked unusually somber. "He's fast with his wand, quicker with his words and definitely twice as smart. We'd have to keep him somewhere he can't easily wiggle out from."

Those words seemed to elicit a kind of winningly triumphant gleam in Dumbledore's eyes. "Yes. I believe I have just the idea."

…

"No." Remus said. "No. Absolutely _not._ "

"Remus, I think you'll find that your muggle family will be completely safe—"

Most of the other Order members had left as soon as Dumbledore had said he knew where to place Regulus. The less that knew, the better that Regulus, and the family he would be staying with, would be protected.

But as Remus sat on the armchair in his bedroom, Albus Dumbledore haunting his doorway, he found himself utterly enraged at the very notion of what was being proposed to him.

"You want my _muggle family_ to host Regulus?" He nearly shouted. He got up from the armchair and began pacing around.

Dumbledore still looked frustratingly calm, and for a moment, Remus wondered if someone was _Imperiousing_ him because what kind of wizard would suggest this?

"What if something happens to them? They'd be muggles. Living with a Pureblooded wizard who _loathes their existence._ Not only that—a known Death Eater! And, not to mention, not only has my Mum not visited her Great Aunt in years, but they _don't know we're magic-folk_! How could we hide them from this? How could we not break the statute of secrecy?"

"It is the only way to shield Regulus from Voldemort's gaze. From the Death Eater's hunting." Dumbledore said calmly. He peered over his half-moon glasses, pinning Remus with his twinkling gaze. "He would never suspect Regulus to hide among muggles. It would only be with your family that Regulus would be safe."

Remus hissed, vehemently against it. Dumbledore, he found, could ask a lot of things of him. Things Remus didn't mind doing because he'd _signed_ _up_ for this war. Had decided of his own accord to partake in it. Remus was fine with that, at peace with that, but this…this was his _family._ His innocent, unassuming muggle family. He'd be putting them at risk, and they wouldn't even know it.

He was six years old when he met his only cousin and Great Aunt for the first and last time. He remembered little about his cousin, only that she was shy and a year younger. He had vague, distant memories of a freckled face, wild tumbling reddish hair and a pair of keen, sharp brown eyes, solemn and somber. Her name, his Mum had told him upon meeting her, had been Elaine; the daughter of her own cousin, Eleonora.

He had liked her, or at least he thought he did with the fuzzy memories of playing cards and the blurriness of her smile, and he knew that his Mum had hoped that they would grow up to be the best of friends—as much as could be allowed, after the incident. His Mother’s Aunt, and Elaine’s grandmother, had been overjoyed when told they would be joining them for Christmas, as Eleonora had passed away in the early November of that year from a muggle sickness.

That was what he remembered most about meeting his cousin; not the slip of a girl, but his Great Aunt Cesira in all her glory, who was full of life and laughter and love, and yet, wore a veil over her face and all black in mourning of her only child. He remembered her booming, warm voice, and her joyous brown eyes, and her wide, breathless smile. He remembered that she talked with such love and affection and bubbling happiness, that for the first time in his small six years, he had seen his Mum unwind, and a calm, happy smile filter onto her face and the tight, gripping worry that had laced itself into her features faded away with Cesira’s thick accented words.

And then, as they celebrated Christmas dinner, Remus had gotten so excited at the idea of playing with someone around his age, that he’d accidentally scratched his younger cousin. Within the hour, Elaine had gotten sick; feverish and moaning, tears and sobs all coming up along with the wonderful food his Great Aunt had cooked. Aunt Cesira brought her to a muggle hospital, rushing and worried and horribly stricken, her face white. His Mum had accompanied them, her own eyes wide and her face all too pallid.

The last Remus saw of his only cousin was the pallidity of her hand as she was hoisted into an old, run-down car, reddish-blonde mane stuck to the sweat dripping down her neck as his Mum tucked her in tight.

So, when he thought of even _calling_ his Mum and Dad, to ask if it were possible that Regulus invited to stay with a cousin and an Aunt he'd only met once, every single atom of his being _revolted_ at the thought.

He shook his head, "What would I even tell them?"

"That Regulus is an old friend from school. He'd be staying for a while, as he has no place to go." Dumbledore answered. "You may inform your Father and Mother, as they are aware of the current events. However, you should add any…unnecessary stress to your Great Aunt or your cousin."

_Don't tell them,_ was the implication that settled in his words.

Remus let out a strangled noise. "So, I'd just be letting Regulus parade around my cousin and Great Aunt's home without telling them that firstly, he hates their very existence would _Avada_ them the moment he could, and secondly, that they're entirely unprotected?"

"Not unprotected." Dumbledore said lightly, although Remus didn't know how he managed such a tone when asking him this, "You'll be there. Along with Sirius. Every week, on Saturdays, a select member of the order will come to check in on you. Question Regulus. But mostly, keep you safe."

He was angry. Desperately furious at the very thing that Dumbledore was suggesting. A Death-Eater in the house of a muggle. A part of him thought that was poetic. The other side cried at the unmitigated _disaster_ this would bring if they even fucked up once.

"Mr. Lupin," said Dumbledore softly. He looked so serious in that moment it was unlike any memory Remus had of the man. "You know that if there was another option, I would not be asking this monumental task of you. I trust you are aware of this?"

Remus sighed. Raising a trembling hand to run through his hair, he felt like ten bricks had just sat down on his chest. "How long? How long would Regulus have to stay?"

"Not three months, I should hope."

The familiar twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes was back.

Remus clenched his eyes tight and hoped to the God his mother believed in that everything would turn out to be fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot: unlocked  
> Motivation: under construction  
> Thank you to all who read this.  
> Hope you all find yourselves well

**Author's Note:**

> This is not complete! Also, once again, this is not canon compliant!


End file.
